Page 68 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“It was kind of you.” He had overheard a conversation earlier at his club about the mysterious fortune-teller at Lady Bedford’s musical evening, and it hadn’t taken much to guess who was responsible and what his purpose had been. “And Sarah, I presume.” Oliver kept his voice firm, his arms still around Jack’s shoulders.
“It wasn’t anything of the—”
“It was. And you were kind to come help me tonight.”
“Hmmph. It was only a matter of time before you got your arms broken by someone who realized you were cheating at cards, or whatever the hell it was you were doing in there.”
“Likely so,” Oliver replied lightly, reeling him in closer again. “I’m glad you came before that. I was getting bored by all the dissipation. So tedious, really,” he drawled. Acting on a moment’s inspiration, he brushed his hand across the pocket where he remembered Jack had kept the card case. There it was, the unmistakable rectangular shape of a calling-card case.
“Don’t make too much of it,” Jack said, his voice a little rough.
“I don’t think I am,” Oliver whispered.
Finally, finally, he felt Jack’s hands settle on his hips. “You didn’t need to make such a thorough disgrace of yourself, you know.”
“I obviously did,” Oliver protested. “You needed it spelled out, so what else could I do? No matter how often I told you that I want you more than decency or honor or rules, it still wouldn’t get through your thick skull. So I decided to show you.”
“Rubbish. You’re never going to be anything other than good and honorable.” Jack’s voice was harsh.
Oliver felt those words like a slap. If, after all this, Jack still couldn’t be made to understand that Oliver wanted him, on any terms at all, then he was at a dead loss. “Jack,” he said, bending his head so he spoke into Jack’s badly tied cravat, “you’re killing me.”
“You didn’t let me finish.” Jack’s voice was in a deep, growly register that Oliver felt reverberate against his own chest. “You’re never going to be anything other than good and honorable. And mine.”
Oliver felt warm lips brush over his own, a kiss that was a promise of future kisses. “Do you mean it?”
“When Georgie told me you’d been gambling and drinking I didn’t know what to think. I thought you must have lost your mind.”
“So you came to rescue me?” Oliver asked, pleased.
“You’re mine,” Jack repeated, dusting kisses along Oliver’s jaw. “I’ve tried being without you, and it’s not any good, Oliver.”
“It really isn’t,” Oliver agreed. “Let’s not do that again.”
“Never again. Come home with me, Oliver.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
From across the worn oak table of a Panton Street chophouse, Oliver watched Jack study the notices advertising houses to let. So far, the man had vetoed every one of Oliver’s suggestions, calling them too shabby, too remote, too vulgar, too small. Jack, Oliver was delighted to discover, was a bit of a snob.
“You can’t expect my clients to come to Hans Town,” Jack said, his fork halfway to his mouth.
And that was how Oliver learned that Jack meant to live with him. He suppressed the urge to crow, and instead helped himself to a bite of mutton from Jack’s plate.
“Sharing a house with an acquaintance is a reasonable economy that might be made by a gentleman who’s had a run of bad luck at cards,” Jack continued. There was something studied about his tone that made Oliver wonder if he had said been repeating that sentence to himself. Was he trying to convince himself or Oliver? Was he giving Oliver an excuse to live with him for reasons other than intimacy?
“Certainly.” Under the table, Oliver hooked his foot around Jack’s leg. “Even more so if he sometimes assists that acquaintance in matters of business,” he suggested.
Oliver could feel Jack’s body go tense. “Is that what you have in mind?” Jack asked.
“Only if you wouldn’t mind. I enjoyed working with you. I’m afraid that my spree of bad behavior will mean that I’ll be of less use. My name will open fewer doors,” he felt compelled to add. “Especially since my father has made it known that he disinherited me.”
That news had arrived via Lord Rutland’s solicitor. Oliver hadn’t been surprised—his antics had practically been calculated with disinheritance as the goal—and he didn’t want any of his father’s money anyway. Maybe one day he would pay a visit to Alder Court and try to put things right between them, but for now he was content to think about the future he was building with Jack.
Jack was silent for a minute, his body too still for his silence to be a sign of relaxation. “So, is this to be a business arrangement?”
“No! Of course not. I want to share my meals and my bed and my life with the man I love. Christ, Jack. Don’t say such filthy things.”
